Narry: One Shots

Once In Your Life

by: wearecities (falsetto)

Summary:

There’s a moment of silence where Harry considers just passing out right there, head hanging off the bed, because the alcohol’s finally catching up to him in the most unpleasant way. “When we’re thirty?”

“When we’re thirty.” Harry repeats. His eyelids are slowly drooping closed, fingers going slack around the beer he’s clutching. He’s just slipping over the edge when there’s the rustle of material and he squints open one eye to look at Niall.

"We’ve done stupider things.” Niall shrugs.

 
Niall and Harry make a marriage pact.

°•°•°

“Right,” Niall starts and Harry makes a noise of acknowledgement, blinking up at the hotel room ceiling. Niall’s sprawled out on the floor to the left somewhere, Harry would check if his brain wasn’t currently doing some hardcore version of the macarena. Much like the one he busted out on the dance floor an hour or so ago. “Snog, marry, kill.”

“Noooooo, I hate this game,” Harry whines. “Why does someone have to die?”

“Alright, alright,” Niall placates. “Just avoid ‘em then if it bothers you that much.”

“Fine,” Harry agrees, trying to work out the logistics of drinking his Corona while still lying flat on the bed. If it doesn’t end up in his eye he’ll call it a win.

“Ben, Corden and,” Niall hums for a second, “Cal.”

“That’s mean,” Harry says but furrows his brow as he thinks. “Snog James, wouldn’t be new. He’s a lovely kisser too, very soft lips. Then, marry Ben. I think Meri would understand, let her keep the dogs obviously. Maybe we could both marry Ben. ” Harry pauses and frowns before saying to the ceiling, “sorry Cal.”

“I’m textin’ him right now.” Niall cackles and Harry rolls to the side of the bed, reaching out with an uncoordinated arm.

“Don’t!” He yells, only to find Niall definitely not texting, still in the exact same position he was when they’d stumbled into the hotel room after Zayn and Perrie’s wedding reception had died down to just as Jesy and Jade started bothering the DJ to put together a Spice Girl’s medley. Harry’s a bit upset about missing that, actually. “Why can’t Cal join? I’m sure I could make it work. There could be a schedule. Like, alternate days and then bank holidays and Sundays off.”

“Christ, Harry. S’just a game, don’t get ya knickers in a twist.” Niall snorts, cracking one eye open and Harry sticks his tongue out. Niall’s shirt is unbuttoned, the top button of his trousers undone too, his blazer balled up under his head as a pillow and he’s resting a bottle of Tia Maria, stolen from the bar downstairs, on his stomach.

“Okay, okay. My turn.” Harry rests his chin over the edge of the bed and watches as Niall takes a swig from the bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Hurry up ain’t got all day.”

“Got it! No, wait, yeah, okay. Tom-- not Atkin, Mcfly-- Fletcher, thingy from the crew-- you know, the one with the hair and, like, the glasses. Had a thing for you for ages.”

“Alan?”

“Yeah! Crew Alan and,” he draws out the last word as he tries to think of the final person. “Me. Crew Alan, Tom Fletcher or me.”

“That’s against the rules,” Niall protests.

“S’just a game,” Harry sing-songs, mimicking Niall earlier. Niall flips up his middle finger in return and Harry makes a lazy swipe for it.